


Irresistible

by MadamRogers



Category: The Punisher - Fandom
Genre: Billy Russo is a dangerous man, F/M, but he is also very irresistible, more description than plot or conversation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 00:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17632286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamRogers/pseuds/MadamRogers
Summary: You meet him at a bar. And during the first seconds you know the night will lead to something.





	Irresistible

**Author's Note:**

> With prompt:
> 
> 38\. ”You fainted… straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes”

This man had fire in his eyes. It came from the lights but merged in the darkness of his eyes so well it looked like the orbs were on fire. They were the first thing you saw and also the only thing you saw for a while. You were able to register perfectly done hair, pale skin and such features that made you blink a bit. That man looked like he had either dropped from the heavens or dragged himself out of the halls of hell. His voice that spoke so close to your face you could feel his lips moving was husky and nearly formal but full of what you were able to call protectiveness. You could taste the sweetness of honey in the words he spoke, how the distant cello in his voice played in your ears.

“Can you hear my voice?”

It also brought you back to the reality, even when it took you somewhere far away. You pushed your eyes closed, so hard you felt it on your cheeks, and the voice you heard didn’t sound like yours at all.

“Yes… Yes, I can hear your voice…”

“Are you hurt?” he spoke again with the same voice, the same intensity in it.

Only now you registered a hand under your head. Your whole upper body was leaning against something solid, like a human body.

Opening your eyes in slightly confused manner, you started to frown and let out a breath. “No, I don’t think so. W-what happened?”

You looked up and saw that his face wasn’t far away from yours. His hand was under your head and your upper body was leaning against his thighs. In some other situation this could’ve been considered either very sensual or beautiful, inappropriate for most parts, but now it was something totally else.

“You fainted… straight into my arms,” he looked down at you, tilting his head a little to the side to look at you better. The same fire was still burning in his eyes. “You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

He was dressed in a black suit jacket and pants that rustled a little when you tried to move. He didn’t let you move much, his other hand was against your side and the grip was enough to keep you in place. He had an important man’s demeanor that made you look at him before answering. You didn’t remember what had happened but by the look he gave you, it had looked ugly. There was a frown between his dark eyes that made him look serious and worried at the same, and you were unable to say which one was the truth. Lying on his lap made you feel a sudden shiver running down your spine.

“I’m sorry for fainting, it wasn’t my intention.”

All you got was a smile. A million dollar smile that kept your eyes on him, that line of perfect, white teeth…

Was there anything in that man that wasn’t attractive? He looked like one of those guys who always liked to make a few new clefts on headboards but he looked good at it. He looked like the epitome of sins but did it so well you weren’t even ashamed of staring at him. There was this tempting scent of danger mixing the smell of his cologne. Danger, passion, heat, anger… All those things that kept you on your toes but at the same time, you were reaching for his lips.

You knew he was doing that on purpose. The world was full of guys like him. But there was no guy like him… There was only one him. And this one him looked down at you with burning eyes, lips curled into a slight grin as if he had caught you.

“I know it wasn’t,” his voice was even more honeyed now if possible. You could feel the sweet taste on your tongue. “When I look at you, I don’t see a girl who walks around, fainting to get attention.”

What do you see when you look at me?

You swallowed it. He was someone to resist. You couldn’t give in to his charm. But that was the only thing you wanted to do.

“Come on, let’s get you up. Maybe these people will stop staring at you when they see you’re fine.”

The hand slipped to your back from under your head as you gave in not to his charm but the hand that started to help you up. You turned your head only inches to see his eyes as his face was so close you could count his eyelashes. You felt his warm breathing against your face, it met your lips, and you looked down at his own. You shouldn’t have done that.

You didn’t care about people staring at you. They always stared, whatever other people did. You wanted to know more about this man. This man whose hand was now more on your lower back than on the center and had moved his other hand away but was still so close his suited form was brushing yours.

“Better,” he almost whispered the word. His tone had changed; he was talking to only you now and not the people around you two who had looked at him holding you on the floor. The cello in his voice continued playing.

You saw from the corner of your eye that there was a fallen chair and thinking it was yours, you turned back to see his eyes. He was closer to the lamps now, and the light got caught in his eyes even more.

“Now, can I offer you a drink?”

He was bad for you but he smelled so good, he looked at you like he wanted to pull the ground from under your feet next to catch you again, he looked dangerous. He had put a spell on you. He was irresistible. And you thought this night needed something dangerous, even after the fall.

To him, you were something pure. Something he hadn’t seen in a long time. Different from the girls before, long before. He had to go way back to find someone nearly as pure as you, but the one wasn’t even close either. He wasn’t seeking a way to ruin you, destroy the pureness of your soul; you had to keep it. You were pure but you were daring, bold, in this game before him, but he quickly got the upper hand with a twist of his tongue.

“Or would you like me to drive you home?” he asked, moving his head a little to meet your eyes that looked away from him. The feeling of your head on his hand was locked in his mind like his hand on your lower back was locked in your mind. His dark orbs were soon locked to your eyes, and then it was bodies talking.

The language was the same; there were only mild mispronunciations here and there. His hand on your lower back pulled you closer to him with similar smoothness and absent cockiness as when he had helped you up, and soon it wasn’t only his suited body brushing against yours, they were pressed together. He turned to meet you with more than just his side, there was more chest now as he still kept it casual, playing the game of guarding the fallen girl from the rush hours of the gloomy bar’s Friday night. Someone asked for more drinks. You were able to feel the material of his pants even through your own clothes, hear the rustling under your movements.

You heard how his pants would rustle when you were taking them off.

He felt the material of your black dress under his hand, how it would flow between his fingers when he freed you from it.

Your eyes talked to his. They wandered away from each other only to find back after heartbeats. That path they made with the travels, it was soon deeper than the feeling you started to have. You hadn’t answered to his question, either of them. But he didn’t need words; he read the answer from your eyes. At first he didn’t do anything about it. He liked his girls bold, and that was what he saw on your face. Drops, like words in your eyes, of want, interest, desire… You had enough spirit to resist him at this point. It was hard in this almost poetic way.

Poets told stories about physical lust, skin against skin. They told stories about desire that dropped between two people like blood from a fresh wound.

But was it in any way correct to feel this much towards a man who you had just met? It didn’t look at time, not at where it came from and where it landed. It just came and took its own.

“Yes, you can drive me home,” you said in the air between you and him. “The name’s Y/N.”

“Billy,” he answered in a low voice, eyes getting to know yours. His hand on your lower back would’ve wanted to get to know your body, lips yours. His free hand’s fingertips touched your arm, went to the pulse point on your wrist, anticipating.

“Billy…”

“Mmm?”

“You can give me a ride…”

You were continuing the sentence you had started with his name, he took it as a call. He gave you a look, like a promise. In the middle of the connection, the electricity you felt between bodies, the talking that had no trace of misunderstanding left, you let him lead you out of the bar. It was left as a mystery why a man like him, dressed like that was in a bar like this one. It was left as a mystery what had happened before you fainted in his arms – you were sure your mind, which was now completely focused on him and this language he was speaking to you, had pushed it way back and you’d be able to find it after hours, days…

You could feel eyes on your back, and by the words shared on your way to his car, you knew you’d remember him not only as a man who made you think you had fallen straight to hell (because men that beautiful only came from hell) but also as someone you’d either regret for the rest of your life or look for in the crowds.

You would be able to recognize his voice in the middle of tens of others. To know which hand was his if people accidentally touched you while walking by. He was irresistible, but something told you he wasn’t going to keep you. Or let you keep him. He was wild, he was always on the move, but not in the way people might think at first. His fingertips brushing your pulse point once more as he let you sit on the seat of his Rolls-Royce; your skin would remember them like they were words, numbers, something you could tattoo on your skin.

Not only a feeling. Not only a man.

When his lips finally touched, owned, claimed yours, you fought to let this feeling linger. Let it have the permission to lurk on the corner of your being for as long as it wanted to. His lips were harsh, they were rough, owning and taking what was theirs, and you were nothing less.

Because he was one of a kind, and you had never been touched like he touched you.

You spoke the same language with him. You were able to explore his body like a book; all those scars, toned muscles… You let your fingertips touch each of them. Similarly his fingertips found each spot of you that told something about you. You shared something without talking with your mouths. Still it was important.

By the morning, he was gone but had left a neat note on your kitchen counter, the piece of paper ripped from the corner of an old paper. The pen was next to it, had rolled to cover half of the sentence on top of his number like it was a secret he had left for you to find. It had a meaning.

Call me. I’m free for you to catch.  
Billy Russo


End file.
